


Last Rites

by startwithsparks



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Confessions, Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sexual Tension, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on The Moment between Hadley and Ramin during Drink With Me in the 25th Anniversary concert. Before they leave for the barricades, Enjolras and Grantaire have some time alone together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Rites

"Keep your hands steady, Grantaire..." he murmured softly, turning his head to stare out the grimy window towards the barricade. There were few moments when Enjolras would hazard a man a drink, but one of them was when he was about to fight and die for a cause that Enjolras had devoted his life to.

When he reunited with Grantaire some year and a half ago, he had been staying in these rooms above the Café Musain - perhaps the very one they were sitting in now - more often than not. Now there were people around to drag him to a more hospitable bed, and he rarely had to resort to lodging here instead of in his own apartment. Regardless of the familiarity of the room, what little of it there was, a sense of heavy foreboding settled on his shoulders as shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He sat sideways, not entirely turned away from the older man, but still refusing to face him directly. One arm rest against the tabletop while the other laid loosely across his thigh, his back stiff, and his gaze a calm mixture of resignation and determination as he tried to steel himself for what had to be done. The fire that had burned so hotly in him that afternoon continued to smolder, although quietly, as he waited.

Meanwhile, Grantaire rummaged through an old chest in the corner, the wood warped and peeling, fabric lining hanging dirty and loose inside. One of the hinges was broken as well and the top looked as if it would fall off with the slightest mishandling. He finally produced a bottle of wine from within, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and spit it into his palm before taking a swig. Knowing that he had bottles stashed all over the café was hardly a surprise to Enjolras; the man probably had bottles stashed all over Paris.

He flashed Enjolras a brief grin, the usual shine in his gaze dulled not because of drink but because of worry. "I'd dream of nothing less," he answered, making his way across the room to drop down in the chair across the table.

Part of him could feel what this was about, why he'd been led upstairs away from the somber revelry below. In truth, he was glad to be away from it - from the drinking and the noise and even the boys singing songs of revolution and national pride. He could still hear them if he closed his eyes and listened carefully, the dull roar of men with nothing to lose. He felt selfish for wanting time to himself now, but he'd hoped for a few moments of quiet contemplation while Grantaire meditated in his own way. He should have known better, of course, should have known that a quiet moment didn't last long with the other man, especially when he had drink in hand. He tried to think if he had seen Grantaire sober in all the time they were reacquainted, but he couldn't pick out a single moment when he was absolutely certain a drawl wasn't a slur or a laugh wasn't an ironic guffaw.

It didn't take long for the silence to pass, and Grantaire shifted forward to place his elbows on the table. "Do you ever regret this?" he asked, his voice uncommonly steady. "The life you've lived, I mean... Is there anything you wish you'd done differently?"

That wasn't quite what he'd expected to hear, and Enjolras slowly tipped his head sideways to meet Grantaire's gaze. He worried the inside of his lip, trying to decide if he even wanted to answer the question. He drew in a slow breath, then shook his head. "It's irrelevant to the cause," he said, hoping in vain that Grantaire would let the topic fall at that. Enjolras could speak of passion and dedication all night, but this was uncomfortable ground for him to tread upon. Maybe there was some truth to the accusation that he was made of marble, but it was only because he willed it that way.

As expected, Grantaire didn't allow the answer to lie. "This may be your last opportunity to lift some of the heaviness from your chest, Enjolras..." he said, and lifted the bottle to his lips again.

That didn't make it any easier for him speak, so he averted his gaze to the window again, despite being able to see little more than the dirty film between him and what lay beyond, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "The only thing I could ever regret is that I never took the chance to see what's beyond this city," he answered softly, "and that this is the way we must reclaim it." He lowered his head, a few golden curls falling from his crown to lay gently against his forehead. "I take no joy in raising a gun, but I see no other choice."

"Then raise a glass," Grantaire offered, though the humor in his voice was forced.

Enjolras frowned, "You bait me though you know I'll refuse," he murmured, though it was no great mystery to him why Grantaire did it. He was all too often the target of jokes from the others, and when Grantaire was playing to the crowd he could be the worst of all. "But there's no one here to laugh," he said aloud.

Grantaire raised one shoulder in a light, noncommittal shrug. "All the more futile of me..."

There was a sort of resignation in Grantaire's voice that caught his attention, because it wasn't the same casual dismissiveness that he usually treated Enjolras' chastisement with. Instead he accepted it plaintively and went back to the bottle. Enjolras was still firmly trying to resist getting involved with this conversation, but he felt a compulsion twist through his chest to draw his body around to face the older man. There was a reason he kept himself at an arms-length from everyone else, that he devoted himself so utterly to Patria, to this battle, to everything that moved him so completely... and there had been a reason he got involved in the first place. Enjolras tamped the memory down, deep enough that he could lock it safely away.

"And you?" he asked instead.

Grantaire snorted in response, as though his companion should know the answer already, and moved to tip the bottle up to his lips again.

But Enjolras reached across the table and tugged it forcefully out of his hand to thunk down between them. He pushed the bottle out of the man's reach with the back of his hand, "Grantaire..."

He glanced up from the bottle, focusing his gaze somewhere around the middle of Enjolras' chest instead of at his face. He could feel the other man staring at him regardless, waiting for him to give an answer. He knew it was only fair, considering what Enjolras told him, and at the risk of having his confession dragged out for the mockery of their friends. It might have been a small show of trust for anyone else, but for Enjolras it had been enormous.

Grantaire scratched at the light scruff on his jaw, "There are things that I have no control over and I'm all the more a fool for dwelling on it," he replied. "There's no more to it than that." He reached out for his bottle again, but Enjolras leaned back, setting it on the window ledge beside him. Grantaire huffed at him and slumped back in his chair, sulking. "Are you concerned for the steadiness of my hands?" he asked.

Enjolras shook his head, "No."

"Then why won't you permit me a drink?"

There were several reasons why Enjolras wouldn't permit it, not the least of which was that he found intoxication a vile trait in any man. He'd seen the kinds of sins a man could commit under the influence of drink, or smoke, or ether, and this was not the time to corrupt either body or mind with substance. But that wasn't the only reason, things were never that simple when dealing with Grantaire. "You hide behind your wine," he said, "this is not the time for cowardice."

Grantaire looked away, focusing his gaze on the floor near the door. A moment passed and a beat longer, too long for Grantaire to be silent unless the wine-soaked cogs in his head were grinding together. Enjolras thought he was going to walk, and the anticipation didn't subside when Grantaire's chair legs scraped across the wood floor and he pushed himself from the table. When he merely slid around the edge of the table, fingertips stained with charcoal dragging on the tabletop beside him, Enjolras pivoted in his seat to place his body between Grantaire and his bottle. But Grantaire didn't reach for it, he didn't even look at it, he just gripped the edge of the table and slowly lowered himself to his knees.

It seemed that baiting Grantaire with the _coward_ remark had pushed him a little further than Enjolras had desired; all he wanted was a simple answer, equal in its confession to the one he gave, and now he was getting something completely different. Enjolras felt his throat tighten and his cheeks go red, shifting in his chair until his back was rigid against the rails. He wasn't ignorant to Grantaire's feelings, he just chose to ignore them as much as possible. He had his reasons - reasons which he was currently grappling to maintain hold on. He swallowed thickly and rubbed his hands over the front of his trousers, watching as Grantaire slowly lifted his head from where it was bowed.

He drew in a steadying breath and seemed to be trying to draw up the courage to speak. A couple of times he started, then stopped abruptly, only to struggle with his words again. Then finally he raised a hand to his chest, motioning with two fingers towards his heart. "I," he murmured, then motioned towards the window and the students below, "this is not I," and finally rest his fingers in the same spot on Enjolras' chest, "and this too is I."

Enjolras felt the air catch in his chest and twist tightly, the tension rising up through the back of his throat and stinging his eyes. Somewhere in his apartment under stacks of law books and papers was a thin fold of papers with Rousseau's _Pygmalion_ hastily transferred onto it by hand. Enjolras was sure no one else knew about it, or else they would have used the knowledge to plague him - it was one thing to adore the writer for his philosophy and another to appreciate his plays in the same breath. This made it all the more remarkable that Grantaire knew to make the reference, since Enjolras had never considered him a particularly cultured person. There was another explanation, that Grantaire had noticed and pieced together enough to know on his own, and it was with that in mind that Enjolras slowly unclenched his hands.

"Yes," he breathed.

Grantaire let out a desperate, relieved laugh, and sat back on his knees, scrubbing his hands over his face. Enjolras quickly leaned forward to reach out for him, grabbing his upper arms to draw him up from the floor and back to his feet. Having anyone, especially Grantaire, on their knees in front of him was more than he could stand when he was trying to process so much already. It wasn't so much the confession itself, but the way Grantaire had framed it, which left him searching for a proper response.

"Tell me again what man is enamored of stone?" he said finally, trying for humor and feeling as though he sounded as confused as he felt.

But Grantaire smiled and reached out to curl Enjolras' cravat around his hands, as forward as he had been among the barricade when he reached out to brush his hand against the younger man's cheek. "Whose frenzy and passion gave life to the unliving?" he countered.

Enjolras ducked his head, "You think too much of me."

"No, I don't..." he shook his head, fingers curling tighter. "You saw me before, you despised me, and yet..."

"I never despised you," Enjolras cut him off, seeming almost offended at the accusation. His grip on the older man's arms tightened slightly, "I've known you my entire life, Grantaire, I was... bewildered by what you'd become, and how, but it was never hate." Disgust, disappointment, but not hate. Enjolras frowned slightly, searching for the right words to express what he wanted to say. When he was stirring up a crowd he could command every phrase, but this was foreign territory to him and, though he wasn't ready to admit it to himself yet, it was far more terrifying than the prospect of walking into battle. He finally gave up trying to be eloquent and let his shoulders slump, "You weren't the person I remembered."

Grantaire stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "War isn't for boys. You have to be prepared to..." Grantaire's voice broke and he trailed off abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut as he lowered his head. He drew in a slow, unsteady breath, and tried to exhale without feeling it tremble out of him.

Slipping a hand up his arm, Enjolras tentatively let his fingers rest against the side of Grantaire's neck, watching as the man tipped his head up slightly to offer a shaky smile. He didn't need Grantaire to say any more than he already had, those first four words told the story well enough. He drew his hand around to the back of Grantaire's neck, pulling him in against his chest. And though his arms were still folded between them, fingers still tight in his cravat, Grantaire bent his head to rest against his shoulder. With a heavy sigh, Enjolras rest his cheek against the side of his companion's head and tightened his hold slightly.

This was admittedly not the way Enjolras expected to spend the evening before the battle - quietly listening to Grantaire's breathing level while the man wrapped and twist his cravat around his fingers. While he was glad that the tension that lingered between them finally dissipated, it was replaced by a new, far more daunting tension. Enjolras could handle feeling alternatively disappointed with and a disappointment to Grantaire, that he knew how to compartmentalize, but having Grantaire's feelings out in the open like this was difficult for him to brave. But this was simple enough so far, being close to someone and letting them take their comfort from him didn't really require his input more than standing there. It wasn't so much that he didn't want to respond, but that he really didn't know _how_.

Leave it to Grantaire to take care of that as well. The man lifted his head finally, taking in a deep breath, and tipped his head up to meet Enjolras' gaze. He looked as though he were struggling to find the right words as well, awkwardly pulling back to put some space between them.

"May I?" he finally murmured.

Enjolras stared back at him, uncertain at first what he was asking for. It wasn't until Grantaire tugged on his cravat and leaned in towards him with a hopeful smile that the realization dawned on him. He felt embarrassed for not catching on sooner and, before he had time to really think it through, found himself nodding in response. At first, there didn't seem to be a lot of conviction in the movement, but it came through as Enjolras decided he did want this as well. For all he expected of Grantaire, it wouldn't be right to deny him this. It was more than duty too, more even than the memory of Coufeyrac drunkenly crowing something about dying a virgin some weeks ago. There was some genuine affection there, much as he'd tried to forget about it.

He wet his lips nervously, just in time for Grantaire to tip his head up and press against him. It was chaste at first, the way any two friends may kiss each other, but as Enjolras forced his body to relax and leaned in towards the older man, Grantaire responded by parting his lips slightly until they fit together. He was all too happy to let Grantaire take the lead here, letting the man guide him deeper in deeper into the kiss until he could taste warm, stale wine on Grantaire's breath and feel the rough stubble of his jaw. As Grantaire's hands went up into his hair, Enjolras dropped his own arms down to wrap around the man's waist, sliding tentatively up his back between his shirt and jacket. When Grantaire responded with a faint murmur of approval, Enjolras pulled him in tighter, splaying his fingers across the rough fabric. He _was_ enjoying this, though he didn't think it was half as much as Grantaire was, but since he hadn't expected to feel anything at all, it was interesting for him to feel the tiny twinge of happiness run through him and bury itself in his gut. It was undoubtedly a joy at being able to give happiness to another person, hardly as much for taking it himself, but Enjolras didn't think there was anything wrong with that.

Grantaire pulled back after just a few brief seconds, giving him the chance to breathe and steady himself. He drew his hand up to tuck a few wayward curls away from Enjolras' forehead and behind his ears, taking advantage of his opportunity to touch while Enjolras was still partially dazed from his first true kiss. There had been other kisses before, naturally - from his parents, from friends, most often from Feuilly who seemed to think at times that his lips belonged on everyone's cheeks, and even a swift, chaste kiss from Eponine not terribly long ago after he invited her to sit with them at dinner. She seemed almost as bashful afterward as he did, and he smiled fondly thinking of it now, a sharp pain twisting in his chest despite the happy memories that flooded him.

Standing there with Grantaire didn't mean that he'd forgotten all of that; he couldn't forget it if he lived a hundred more years. But to him Eponine was freedom and love, she was bright and clever and good. While it felt trite to think that she wouldn't want them to turn in on their own sadness, he saw the look of true happiness on her face in the moments before she died and he knew that she wouldn't want anyone else to deny themselves the opportunity to have that as well. Turning his back on someone who needed him as much as Grantaire did - and had for years - wouldn't honor her sacrifice. He made sure they moved her somewhere safe and warm, covered her neatly, and let Gavroche have his time alone with his sister, but Enjolras didn't have the power to do any more for her; not when he was so sure they would all be lying next to her by morning.

There was nothing self-centered in his mind when he leaned back in and gathered Grantaire against his chest once more. There was only so much he had to give of himself for anything that wasn't Patria, and he could give Grantaire all of it. If it left him with nothing but the fire to fight in the morning, then all the better for it. But he knew it was more than that, no matter how he tried to rationalize all this for one reason or another. He took Grantaire's confession with all the weight and consequences that came with it and maybe, somewhere between them as their mouths came together again, his own slipped through.

Enjolras drew his hands around to Grantaire's waist, holding him firmly in place while the older man's hands grazed through his hair, displacing curls and twisting tightly. One particularly rough scrape of nails against his scalp drew a groan from him, exhaling against Grantaire's lips just as he inhaled and drew Enjolras' breath into his lungs. Grantaire tensed, dragging his mouth away from Enjolras in an attempt to stifle a shaky moan. His cheeks were bright red, all the way down his neck past the collar of his shirt, and his hands had fallen away from Enjolras' hair. Though he wasn't entirely sure what caused that reaction, he was still encouraged by it, leaning in and brushing his lips softly along the curve of his jaw.

"Grantaire..." he murmured, but the man only grunted a response, hands trying vainly to rid Enjolras of his jacket. He smirked and shrugged it off, tossing it over the chair next to him. "René."

He let out another soft groan at that, pulling back to look at Enjolras, "Are we back to given names now?" he asked.

"It seems..." Enjolras thoughtfully, "inappropriate to keep calling you by your family name when you're trying to take my clothes off."

Grantaire blushed and had the decency to look a little abashed. "You felt warm," he shrugged innocently, and Enjolras rolled his eyes.

He pulled back then, unwinding their arms to undo the few buttons left closed on his waistcoat, sliding it off and dropping it on the table. Intent on restoring the upper hand to his companion, Grantaire reached down and tugged his shirt loose from his trousers, watching Enjolras while he did to make sure that he wasn't overstepping. Enjolras' face was hard to read - he'd leaned his hip against the table, one hand resting on the back of his chair with his eyes trained steadily on Grantaire's face. He unwound his cravat and crumpled it in his hand, dropping it on top of his waistcoat, then carefully unrolled his sleeves and started on the buttons of his shirt. He was about halfway down when he stopped and dropped his hands to the side.

"You're just going to stand there?"

"I'm watching," Enjolras replied.

"And are you enjoying yourself?"

He shrugged lightly, "I can't be sure yet."

With a snort, Grantaire reached out and curled Enjolras' cravat around his hand again, tugging him forward and towards the thin, threadbare bed pressed against the other wall. "Then let your Hephaestion be of service, Alexandre..." he said, his voice softer and less certain now, as though he were having a difficult time moving things from feeling to word.

"Are you Hephaestion now?" he asked, "No longer Galatea? Nor Pylades nor Patroclus nor dear Orpheus?"

"Orpheus," Grantaire murmured, dropping down on the edge of the bed and taking hold of Enjolras' cravat by one end, slowly unwinding it and pulling it off. "Could you dare think that I would betray the god of wine so foolishly?"

Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at the abandoned bottle, shrugged, and turned back to Grantaire with a smile.

"Point," he smiled softly. "Then let me be Orpheus... and let me have but one god: you, my own radiant Apollo. Teach me to play your song," he continued, his voice breathless and needy as he dragged Enjolras down onto the bed with him. The younger man braced a knee next to him, sliding across his body to rest on his side near the wall. He was fascinated by Grantaire's words, having never heard him speak passionately about anything in his life. "May I be punished for my doubt and torn to pieces for my adoration, but let me be always in the sight of my sun." He rolled to his side so he was face-to-face with Enjolras again, reaching out to run his fingers along the bare collarbone left exposed by the loosening of his cravat, "And may I be silenced only when _you_ will me to be silent."

He didn't know what to say in response to that, but his heart was pounding hard in his chest, loud enough that he wondered if Grantaire didn't have some sense of it as well. He didn't believe any man was immune to the kind of adoration Grantaire offered him. Instead, he raised his hand and let his fingers trace tentatively up the side of Grantaire's neck where they lingered on his jaw. "It's not the cause you give your life for, is it?" he asked.

Grantaire shook his head. "No."

He just needed to hear it for himself, Grantaire's true confession, before he drew the older man in and pressed into another kiss, tangling his fingers in Grantaire's hair as he struggled to tug his shirt out of his trousers. Grantaire reached forward to help, fumbling through folds of fabric until his hands finally touched skin, exhaling a heavy sigh against Enjolras' lips.


End file.
